Known Subjects
by Leaper
Summary: In a better world, in a fairer world, these are some of the stories that might have been told. A selection of what might have been for some unsubs.
1. In Heat

**Pride**

Ocean Drive was filled with rainbows. There was leather, glitter, cross-dressing, and bare skin — lots of bare skin — but most of all, there were rainbows. Rainbows on flags, hats, ribbons, buttons, stickers, shorts, tights... Color draped almost every shouting and wolf-whistling figure, almost blindingly bright under the hot Miami sun.

David Fitzgerald was a notable spot of drab, with his tan shirt and grey slacks. But he was also dour: his arms crossed, jaw set, staring out at the bare chested humanity of both genders as they marched by with signs like "Love Is Love" and "Equality Now!"

Sarah Fitzgerald jogged up to his side — she fit in more, with her "Proud PFLAG Sister" t-shirt and equal sign logo face-painted on her left cheek. "Here, Dad!" she chirped, handing her father a PFLAG button. "Come on, it's a parade!"

All the older man did was snort in reply and shove the button into his pocket.

Sarah rolled her eyes, grabbing onto her father's arm. "Oh, come on, cheer up. They're gonna be coming by any minute!"

"Coming to this... this parade is one thing," David rumbled. "But did he have to actually _be_ in it?"

"Yes, he did. It's not like he's doing it to personally humiliate you, you know. He's not waving a sign with his name and address on it. He's just marching." Sarah brightened as the sign for American Airlines employees bobbed into view. "There he is!" She began jumping up and down, waving her arms. "Steve!" she screeched. "Steve! Nate! Over here!"

Two faces turned at the screams — a minor miracle, given the thumping bass and loud applause all around them. Steven Fitzgerald wrapped his arm around that of Nathan Brock's and pulled him out of the march towards the sides. "Sarah! God, I'm so glad you made it!" He hugged his sister tight over the barricade. "Sir." He nodded towards his father. David Fitzgerald nodded begrudgingly back.

"Hey, Sarah!" Nathan Brock was redheaded and white-toothed, his lean, wiry swimmer's build on full display thanks to wearing a pair of tight Lycra shorts and running shoes, and nothing else. It was sharp contrast with Steven's blue American t-shirt and denim shorts; fortunately, Nathan thought his boyfriend's body consciousness was "cute". "Looking good!"

"You too! No, better than good — you are _smoking_ hot!" She gave him a hug, their sunglasses clinking against each other.

"Thanks, but still not my type! Sorry!" Laughing, Nathan turned towards the elder man, his dazzling smile slipping just slightly. "Hello, Mr. Fitzgerald," he said politely.

"Are you _still_ with him?" David Fitzgerald snapped at his son, completely ignoring the greeting.

"Yes, Dad, I am," Steven said wearily. "It's been two months now, and I'm still not breaking up with him."

"You know what they say about how long these... relationships last."

"Dad!" Sarah lightly slapped her father's shoulder, earning her a nasty look in return. "Oh! You guys had better catch up with your group. We'll meet you after the parade's over for dinner. And we'll _both_ be on our best behavior." She cast a glare at David Fitzgerald that rivaled the ones the old man gave out.

"Sounds good." Steven pecked his sister on the cheek and jogged back towards the American Airlines group, dragging Nathan by the hand; he didn't even have to look behind him to see his sister's smile and his father's sour grimace.

"Did you see that, Dad?" Sarah remarked quietly, the words almost, but not quite, lost over the tumult around them.

David had indeed seen "that": the adoring looks his son cast that... that man. The lightness of his step, the strength of his shoulders. He was happy, blindingly happy, the way David Fitzgerald had seen the mirror a time or two when his wife was alive... "Is that really necessary?" he groused, waving his hand at a pair of topless young women marching by with X's of tape over their nipples. Sarah rolled her eyes.

Meanwhile, back in the parade, Nathan nudged Steven's shoulder. "Your dad still doesn't like me," he said.

"No. Not sure he ever will. But at least he didn't put a choke hold on you. I could tell he wanted to."

Nathan laughed, a deep, ringing sound that sent Steven's heart racing. "Seriously, though, if I'm gonna cause trouble with you and your dad..."

"It's not your fault," Steven said. "He's had trouble with me being gay for years. It used to be bad... Real bad. But it's a lot better now, and..." He shook his head in a kind of wonder. "He's trying. In his own way, he's actually trying. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Well, then maybe there's hope."

"Maybe." A parade watcher caught his attention: tanned, black buzz cut hair, arms and chest packed with muscle that barely fit under his tank top. He was standing closely — much too closely — to a similarly built blond who looked like he'd just stepped out of the pages of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. Steven licked a bead of sweat from his lip.

Nathan shoved Steven on the shoulder. "You filthy bitch!" he cried in faux outrage. "In front of your boyfriend!"

"'You filthy bitch! In front of your boyfriend!'" Steven repeated in a gently mocking imitation of Nathan's Boston accent. "Don't tell me you didn't notice them too!"

"No! Okay, yes. They were really hot, so I'll forgive you this time."

"Oh, you have nothing to be jealous about."

"No?" Nathan asked, eyes twinkling. "You didn't even think, for one second, that you wanted to be that guy — that built, incredibly sexy guy with the equally built and incredibly sexy boyfriend — and not Steven Fitzgerald? Not even for a second?"

Steven smiled. "Steven Fitzgerald has you," he said, wrapping his arm around Nathan's shoulder and giving him a kiss. "So no — there's no one else in the world I'd rather be right now than me."

**AN: Might continue, if there's interest. Already planning other similar unsubs: Jonny McHale, Samantha Malcolm, and, of course, Tobias Hankel. Let me know if y'all are interested in more, or if there are any others you think I should cover...**


	2. True Night

**AN: It's been a while, but I may pick this up off and on again.**

**Earth-2**

"You're welcome."

Jonny's head shot up at the wry voice.

"What?"

"I put Gail back to sleep all by myself," Vickie said, pushing herself off the wall and standing behind his chair. "So you're welcome."

"She was—?" Jonny groaned. "Jesus, I'm so sorry, I didn't even hear..."

"Oh, it's all right. I know what you're like when you get in your 'zone'. But now you owe me." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and peeked over them. "So what are you working on, anyway? I thought you sent in _Blue_ already?"

"I did. This is something new."

For the first time, Vickie truly saw the page layout on the drawing table. She squinted. "Kind of dark. And gory. What happened to making comics our daughter can read?"

"She can read this. Just... when she's older."

"Uh huh." She leaned in a little closer, their cheeks caressing. "Werewolves?"

"Yeah. Vampires and zombies are so overdone these days. Besides, it fits in with the story."

"What's it called?"

"_True Night_."

"Ooooh, how grim and badass." Jonny shot Vickie a not entirely serious glare. He watched as her eyes roved over the hooded figure swinging twin katanas. "Let me guess: the werewolves stuffed his wife into the fridge, and now he's driven to take vengeance by his rage and his _manly_ pain."

"Stop it." Vickie laughed as he lightly punched her shoulder. "For your information, it's his _brother_, and he's alive, just infected. True Night's mission is to find a cure and stop the werewolves from infecting other people." He paused, looking back down at the black and white drawings in front of him. "It's about being human, and how much effort takes to be human. It's about fighting your inner darkness and being someone you can be proud of. It's about keeping your sanity when all it takes sometimes to drive you off the edge is—"

"'One bad day'," Vickie quoted softly.

"'One bad day'," Jonny echoed. "The brother is the werewolf, but True Night may be the actual monster. This story isn't going to be like all the Dark Age crap we make fun of, Vickie. It's _real_, in a way those weren't. It's going to show what a 'real' Dark Age hero would be like... Tragic and horrifying."

There was a moment of silence.

"Okay, I can see that," Vickie finally said. "But why now?"

Jonny shrugged. "I feel like I'm being... I dunno, typecast, in a way. I want to show people what I'm really capable of. That I'm flexible."

"That you are," Vickie said coyly.

"Shut up. I just... I want to show another side of me to the world. If it's a little darker than what they're used to, well..." He shrugged. "That's their problem."

"You know Bobby is going to hate it."

"The only thing Bobby likes is a safe, steady stream of checks. I'll self-publish if I have to. I did it with _Blue_."

"Well, you know I'll support you. Fix your spelling mistakes. As usual." Vickie kissed him on the cheek; he reached up and squeezed one of her hands. "Just as long as you finish the Senior Prom arc. I'm _dying_ to find out what happens next."

"You and everyone else."

A piercing wail shot from the other room.

"It's your turn," Vickie said into his ear. "As for that favor... I wanna go out with the girls Friday night."

"Go out and live your life, huh?"

"You know it."

Jonny groaned in mock pain, extricating himself from Vickie's embrace. As he stepped into the hallway, his last sight of her was her stretching out on the couch.

The nursery was mostly dark, gently lit by the globe nightlight on the dresser. Jonny reached into the crib and gently picked up his screeching daughter. "Okay, okay, it's okay, Daddy's here..." There was no response except more crying — not that he expected it. "I'm always here..." he whispered, kissing the baby's forehead.

Outside, it was true night. But in that home, in that room, with his family, it felt to Jonny as bright as the shining summer sun.


	3. The Replicator

**Do Over**

The elevator doors were starting to close when an arm appeared in between them. Aaron Hotchner, lost as he was in thought, barely had time to react before the doors were forced open.

"Sir," Hotch said with a nod.

"Agent Hotchner." Interim Section Chief John Curtis strode in. He turned and faced the doors as they slid shut. "Good job in Philadelphia."

"Thank you."

They barely rode in silence a second before Curtis spoke again. "So what's going to happen to that man now?"

"He's being examined by a court appointed psychologist. I assume that whatever the DA does will be based on his recommendations."

"Lost his son... Now he's about to lose the rest of his life." Curtis shook his head. "Damn shame."

Hotch stole a quick glance at Curtis. One of Hayley's more lighthearted criticisms of him was that he didn't "seem able to shut down the profiler part of your brain." And, he had to admit, it was at least somewhat true. When your job was dealing with people and how they thought, it was difficult, if not impossible, to keep it out of every personal and social interaction.

He knew little about Curtis before he was made interim Section Chief after Strauss's leave of absence — just that the two apparently had some kind of history, that that history was part of the reason he got the Section Chief Job, and that he, like Strauss, was chosen more for his administrative skills than any knowledge of or interest in profiling in particular. So it wasn't like Hotch could claim any personal knowledge of this man or his life, but...

There was just something John Curtis that tickled part of his profiler's brain. He would never say so to anyone, of course — mostly because he had no idea what that tickle was, exactly, or even what it meant. Maybe it was some kind of instinct. Of course, he knew as much as anyone that instinct without fact to back it up was useless at best and misleading at worst. So he kept his counsel.

That didn't change the fact that, again, there was just _something_ about the man that put Hotch on mild alert. Take his reaction to Hotch's answer about Jimmy Hall. It seemed genuine enough; everything about Curtis's manner, voice, and body language indicated empathy. But it still struck Hotch as _false_ somehow, as if Curtis was putting on some kind of act because he knew that was how he was expected to react. The conflict between the cold hard reality of the impulse, and the knowledge that he couldn't articulate a single thing about how or why he felt it, honestly bothered him. He wasn't used to not being able to explain himself, even poorly, never mind being this uncertain about his own thoughts and reactions.

"Have you heard anything from Erin lately?" Curtis's question snapped Hotch out of his reflection, but even there, his instinct prickled again, because this time, he _knew_ that Curtis was 100% genuinely interested, genuinely concerned. Even though he wouldn't have been able to say what the difference was, it was still _there,_ somehow, making the contrast all that more disturbing.

Years of FBI training and field work had sharpened Hotch's mind to the extent that all of these thoughts could run through his head, yet he was still able to answer Curtis quickly enough for the conversation to flow naturally. "Not yet, but I understand she's taking her... next steps very seriously."

"Good. I've reached out myself, but no answer." Curtis grimaced. "I think she's embarrassed to talk to me. Frankly, I'm embarrassed myself, for not realizing what was going on sooner." He fixed Hotch with a serious stare. "I owe her. She had my back when it counted. So if there's anything I can do, anything she needs..."

"I'll let her know," Hotch replied. "I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

The elevator bell rang and the doors ground open, revealing that section of the parking garage reserved for senior officials and bureau bigwigs. Curtis strode out. "Good night, Agent Hotchner," he said without looking back.

"Good night."

For reasons he couldn't even articulate to himself, Aaron Hotchner kept his gaze on the section chief's retreating back until the elevator doors completely shut him off from sight.


	4. Revelations

**Deliver Us From Evil**

"... Amen."

"Amen."

"Amen."

Dinner at the Hankel house were always silent, cold affairs, no matter what the weather. That sultry summer night was no different. There was only the sound of silverware chiming against plates and bowls as food was passed and served. No casual conversation. No music. No laughter.

Just chewing. And drinking. And looks.

Charles Hankel ate his pot roast plain, with only a dash of salt, as usual. Tobias squeezed a dollop of ketchup onto his.

No compliments. No complaints.

Just chewing. And drinking. And looks.

Then Charles Hankel began coughing, a harsh, deep, almost roaring sound. Bits of chewed broccoli florets sprayed across the table.

"Charles?"

"Are you okay, Dad?"

Charles suppressed the fit just in time to fix his son with a contemptuous glare. "No, I am _not_ okay." Harshly, almost defiantly, he stabbed his fork into his mashed potatoes and shoved the entire glob into his mouth. "It's almost time, boy. I can feel it."

"I don't want to!"

"Doesn't matter. You will."

"Charles, please—!"

"What happened to 'thou shalt not kill'?" Tobias demanded.

"What happened to 'honor thy father'?" Charles drained his glass of water in one swig. Whether it was to quench thirst, or stop another coughing fit, it was impossible to say.

"Why don't you just go to the hospital?"

Charles sneered. "And let 'em hook me up to machines, drain my life and my bank account at the same time? No. No! I'm dyin' when I want to, how I want to."

"Then do it yourself!"

Charles shot to his feet; the chair groaned on the hardwood floor as it skittered back. "You callin' me a coward, boy?!"

"Of course not, Charles, he just—"

"Shut up!"

"Hey, don't you talk to her like—"

"You too! I've given you an order, as your father, and I expect you to obey!" Charles snorted. "Then you can go back to wastin' your life playin' your fool games with those degenerate friends of yours."

Tobias was on his feet now as well, despite the hand scrabbling at his sleeve. "I haven't seen my friends in months," he said through gritted teeth, "'cause you make me stay home, and they don't want to come here."

"You blaming me for that?" Charles's voice had an almost obscene tinge of pride to it. There was no answer from his son; just the clenching of fists. "I have no idea what you're gonna do when I'm gone, boy," he said in disgust. He turned from the table.

"Charles, where are you going?"

"To feed the dogs. Then down to the root cellar. Got work to do."

"But what about dinner?"

"I'm not hungry!" The door slamming behind him was akin to a gunshot.

Once more, there was silence, except for the distant rustling of leaves and a faint howl somewhere in the distance.

Tobias too turned from the table.

"Tobias?"

"I'm not hungry, either," he muttered, storming from the room.

Sarah Hankel stared blankly at the abandoned table and abandoned food in front of her. Then she sighed wearily, got up, and went to her son's room.

Tobias was in bed, face down in his pillow. Sarah shook her head. He was so like a child, still, in so many ways...

But then, she knew exactly why.

She drifted to the bed and sat down on the edge, next to Tobias's torso. He stirred, feeling the bed move when she sat, but otherwise didn't move or speak. She sighed again, deeper this time, as she stroked her son's hair.

"Bet you wish you'd left when you had the chance, huh?" Tobias's voice was muffled in the pillow.

"No, honey, of course not." That is what she intended to say. That is what she wanted to say. That is what she started to say. But no words came out of her mouth. She could feel her son's shoulders tense under her touch.

She still didn't know how he'd found out what she'd intended so many years ago. She didn't tell anyone, of course, least of all Charles or Tobias. But Tobias always was a bright boy.

"You should've," Tobias continued, not lifting his head one inch. "Then maybe one of us would be happy."

Finally, Sarah got words out. "I couldn't leave you, honey," she rasped. "I just couldn't. And you deserved a stable home, and I had no idea if I could give that to you..."

"Now you're stuck." Even through the pillow, she could hear the bitterness in his voice. "Just like me."

That she could agree with.

Sarah Hankel was tired — just so so tired, all the time. It was as though Charles (and, in her darkest thoughts, Tobias) was physically draining the life out of her, day after endless day. That was why she almost ran off with Raymond — not because she particularly had any strong feelings for him, but because she had to get _away_, away from Charles, and she knew Raymond, for all his faults, would at least leave her _something_ for herself...

She had been so close. She was packing her bag while Charles was in town. Then Tobias appeared in the doorway.

"Mommy?" She looked up. "We're out of cereal."

"Oh." She put down the dress she'd been folding; she could spare one last moment here. "We have some more in the pantry; I'll get it for you."

She went downstairs and into the pantry. She retrieved a box of corn flakes from a high shelf; when she turned around, Tobias was already looking up at her expectantly, bowl in hand. Smiling tiredly, she opened the box and poured some cereal into the waiting bowl.

Tobias hugged her around her legs. "Thanks, Mommy. I love you." Then he scampered off to get some milk.

Sarah Hankel just stood there, in frozen horror. Because now she knew. She knew she couldn't leave. She'd just be leaving one kind of hell to another — one she had no prayer of escaping.

So, tears welling up in her eyes, she went back upstairs and replaced her clothes in the closet and dresser.

And she stayed. For years uncountable. The world outside changed, grew. But not the Hankel farm. The Hankel farm was always the same, despite the addition of a few new muscles and strands of facial hair.

"I don't regret it," Sarah said in the present; some distant part of her admired how steady and firm her voice was. Maybe she'd been lying for so long, she'd become an expert. "I don't regret working to give you a good home..."

"It's not your fault." His voice lowered into a growl, so unlike the high innocence of his youth. "It's _his_."

"Tobias—"

"What scares me..." A sob shook his throat. "What scares me is that I _want_ to do it. That's why I don't want to, because I know if I do, I won't regret it, I might even enjoy it, and it scares the hell out of me, Mom, what will God think when—"

"Shh, shh..." She felt as though she were rocking the infant boy in her cradle, the way she cooed and soothed.

Eventually, her son's back began to unknot. There were no more words — just the hum of Tobias's computers. His breathing grew regular, steady. Gently, she turned her son to his side; dried tracks snaked down his face from his closed eyelids.

For the second time in Sarah Hankel's life, she _knew_. Unlike the first, there was no horror — just an abiding sense of calm and certainty, as if an angel had descended from Heaven and revealed the Truth unto her.

Sarah Hankel got up from the bed. She went back to the kitchen. She put away the leftover food and washed the dishes.

Then she made sure Tobias's shotgun was clean and loaded before she stepped out the front door.


End file.
